


Gold Medal, Tiger, Lion

by whitedatura



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Friend Jealousy, Friendship, Gen, Grand Prix Final Banquet - Barcelona, Instagram, M/M, Pre-Slash if you choose to read it that way, a lot of swearing, post-Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9254861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitedatura/pseuds/whitedatura
Summary: The banquet is boring as hell. Yuri has better things to do, like ride around Barcelona with Otabek taking selfies and try to figure out this whole "friend" thing without thinking about it too much. (And climb a giant cat sculpture. That’s important, too.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was in the middle of writing a Victuuri soulmate fic and then episode 12 happened. I have a lot of emotions about Russian Yuri. This kid is so full of rage and feelings and I LOVE HIM.
> 
> Read as far into the Yuri & Otabek friendship/relationship as you want. I'm personally in the friendship/unrealized crush(es)-gradually-evolve-into-romantic-feelings camp. 
> 
> (I sort of want to write the gradually-evolving-feelings thing.)
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful beta Rachel!

Yuri is done with this shit.

The banquet _last year_ had been fucking awful, but this year is So. Much. Worse.

Viktor and Katsudon are going around fucking nuzzling each other, like making everyone watch them _ice dance_ in _matching costumes_ to _Viktor's stupid routine_ at the gala somehow hadn't been disgusting enough. Yuri's going to barf on Viktor's shoes the next time he passes by. Katsudon isn't retiring, though, so that's... something. Something he was not fucking worried about at all, fuck you very much, Viktor. 

Yuri, of course, had been the one to find those two morons still rinkside an hour after the medal ceremony, zamboni placidly circling the ice as they _cuddled_ or whatever the hell they were wasting time on instead of fucking finding Yuri to tell him that Katsudon was going to keep competing.

Not that he _cares_.

(Viktor should be offering to choreograph all of Yuri's programs until the end of time for winning gold, not trying to give him another creepy, teary hug, what the hell.)

Anyway, the banquet is awful. Last year there'd at least been plastered Yuuri for entertainment; this year Katsudon and Viktor are too busy gazing into each other’s eyes and being gross to bother with anything else, Yuri hasn't seen Otabek anywhere, and everyone keeps congratulating him on his win like they can't fucking believe it. It's insulting.

He's gritting his teeth through another boring conversation when the gaps between boring old people talking about boring things miraculously align and he spots Otabek across the room. He charges toward him immediately; Yakov can cover for him if there's anyone important he hasn't been forced to speak to yet.

He doesn't notice Mila hanging off Otabek's arm until he's halfway there, and he freezes in the middle of plowing between two people.

"Yuri? Hi!"

It's Katsudon's friend, Phichit. Sixth place, but his energy was good. And he's not crying in a public toilet about it. Without looking back at Otabek and that hag Mila, Yuri whirls like he'd been storming over here to join this particular group all along. Chris is here, too, so it's... tolerable. Barely. Chris is really old and even weirder than Viktor.

"Something wrong, Yuri?" Chris asks. He's still wearing that stupid red rose crown Katsudon's _other_ fucking friend put on him. How many friends does that loser need?

"No."

Chris and Phichit exchange a glance. People always fucking do that like being short means he can't fucking see them. What the hell is wrong with everyone?

"You looked like you were going somewhere pretty quickly," Phichit says, like because he's all cheerful and cute Yuri won't murder him for bringing it up.

"I wasn't."

Chris smirks. "So you weren't going to rescue the Hero of Kazakhstan over there from your rinkmate?"

 _Fuck_ this asshole. "I said I wasn't!"

"He rescued you, though, didn't he?" Phichit taps his lip before pulling out his phone. "'The fairy of Russia, Yuri Plisetsky, rides off on a motorbike with Otabek, the hero of Kazakhstan,'" he reads off, glancing at Yuri over the top of his phone in such an obviously sly-but-pretending-to-be-innocent way that Yuri wants to kick Phichit in his blindingly white teeth.

"He—they—shut up!"

"Hmm. She's been getting pretty forward," Chris says with a smirk like he hadn't just clearly heard Yuri tell them to shut up. "I heard her say something about sleeping with teddy bears a few minutes ago. Ah, maybe it was the other kind of teddy."

 _No_. Nope. Not fucking happening. That _hag_ is not allowed to sink her claws into _Yuri’s_ friend. 

He only gets a few stomps away from the snickers behind him when JJ, king of dicks, cuts in front of him. "Hey, little lady! I'll beat you next time!"

No he fucking won't, because the _only_ people allowed to even _think_ about _maybe_ beating Yuri are Katsudon and Otabek, not this asshole with his asshole girlfriend. 

By the time he's done arguing with JJ—who is still fucking grinning, did he give himself brain damage on one of his flubbed jumps?—Mila is talking to those weird Italian siblings and the Czech guy who thinks he can grow a beard who's always hanging around them. Otabek is nowhere to be seen.

He does not explode in fury, but it's a near thing.

Deprived of the only decent company in the entire place, he storms over to Mila and barks, "What'd you do with him?"

"Who?" Like she doesn't _know_.

"Otabek!" He does not screech. If she says he's getting her another glass of champagne Yuri will not be held responsible for his actions.

"Oh, I don't know. Over there somewhere." She waves an arm toward the patch of wall where Otabek _had_ been standing and definitely _isn't_ anymore.

"What the hell, witch, you were just with him!"

"Was I?"

Yuri is going to kill her. No, better yet: he's going to fray the straps on all her practice bras so they snap when she tries any jumps. And put clear tape over her skate blades for the next year. And steal her phone to text all of her ex-whatevers and say that she misses them terribly. And tell Yakov she's cheating on their competition season diet.

"His free skate was really something, wasn't it?" says weird Italian sibling #1, doing something ridiculous with her clasped hands by her face as weird Italian sibling #2 practically froths at the mouth in anger.

"M _hmm_ ," Mila agrees like the disgusting pervert she is. "His style’s really... bold."

Obviously Otabek is a great skater and should've definitely been on the podium with Yuri and Katsudon instead of that dickfart JJ, but Mila and Sara are making it gross.

He makes sure he's far enough away that she won't grab him and lift him over her head when he yells, "You're way too old for him!"

"We're the same age, Yurochka!" she calls back, almost sloshing champagne on the floor. "You're the one that's too young!"

What the fuck, he is not.

He's not sure where he's going, but Lilia grabs him before he gets very far and smoothly introduces him to another sponsor who's suddenly interested in him now that he's made his senior debut. He scans the increasingly drunk crowd for Otabek as he feigns attention—Yakov and Lilia will take care of the details—and catches sight of Viktor a few times, his old man gray hair and giant shiny forehead making him stand out. Katsudon is next to him, tomato red even from across the room. They're talking to Chris, who is loosening his tie, which Yuri definitely doesn't want to see. His gaze shifts and he goes rigid when he makes accidental eye contact with Viktor.

They're coming over.

Katsudon has faded back to a regular human color by the time they cross the room. Viktor cuts into the conversation with Yakov and the sponsor—like Mr. Five-Time Champion Who Fucked Off to Japan _needs_ more sponsors? Dickhead. He's about the butt in and actually participate when Katsudon reaches out and does this strange shoulder pat thing like he's afraid Yuri's going to rip his arm out of his socket for it but feels compelled to try anyway. Yuri generously decides this is the correct approach to touching him and allows it with a flat stare.

"I was happy to stand on the podium next to Yuri," Katsudon says.

This fucking guy.

"I'm going to beat your record," Yuri replies, lifting his chin.

"We'll see about that." Katsudon grins at him and he feels the corner of his mouth lifting in response, so he quickly ducks his head and whacks Katsudon on the back and grumbles, "I'm still a better dancer than you."

While he's still weirded out by whatever the hell that was, Viktor leans way too close and says quietly in his ear, "Otabek slipped outside a few minutes ago," before cheerfully saying something to Yakov that practically has steam coming out of the man's ears. It's probably a good time to get the hell out of there.

The air outside the venue is cold, but Yuri is from Russia, he can handle a lot colder. He's out there for less than a minute and definitely not shivering without his coat when he hears the rumble of an approaching motorbike.

Yuri's friend is the fucking coolest. 

(Maybe if they have a break in training at the same time Otabek could be persuaded to teach him to ride it. He'll be 16 in March, old enough for a motorbike license in Russia.)

Yuri puts on the helmet Otabek holds out and blinks at the jacket that follows. It's black leather with white tiger stripes on the sleeves. And it has a hood. (It's fucking awesome.) It's a little big, but that makes it easier to tuck his hands in the cuffs after he swings a leg over the bike and holds on to Otabek properly so he doesn't get another safety lecture.

"Where to?" Otabek asks over his shoulder.

"Anywhere but here."

It's late enough that the city is starting to come to life around them as they weave through the streets; leaning into the turns is second nature to someone who's spent their life on the ice. Yuri's mind goes blissfully blank as they blur past buildings and people and palms and then there's the ocean, sparkling with the reflected light of the city.

Otabek parks the bike and Yuri climbs off, removing his helmet and smoothing his hair down as Otabek does the same. He keeps the jacket on and pulls the hood up.

They find an empty bench and sit, facing the waves.

Yuri likes that Otabek doesn't try to fill the silence with meaningless bullshit, but right now he wants some answers.

"What the hell was that grandma saying to you at the banquet?" When Otabek turns to him with a puzzled look he flaps a hand and clarifies, "The red-haired hag. Mila."

"Oh, your rinkmate. We were talking about the Russian Nationals."

"She wasn't harassing you?" Who the hell wouldn't be bothered by Mila hanging all over them? Otabek's lucky she didn't try to pick him up. Literally.

Otabek shrugs, arm brushing against Yuri's. "No."

Yuri's jaw clenches. "Why'd you leave if it wasn't her?"

"I talked to who I needed to. Not much of a point in staying. I don’t really like parties.”

They hadn't spoken at the banquet. At all. "Oh," Yuri chokes out. His throat feels weird. Maybe he's getting sick. He crosses his arms and slumps further down on the bench, looking over at a lump in the sand. 

"Viktor told you where I was, right?"

Oh. _Oh_. Because he'd wanted to hang out _not_ at the banquet because the banquet was fucking lame. Obviously. He grunts in response because he doesn't want to talk about anything having to do with Viktor. Ever. Instead he finds himself saying, "Last year's banquet was better. Less boring," and is completely horrified with himself.

"With the dance-off?" Otabek asks, entirely serious and not mercilessly teasing Yuri for admitting it out loud unlike _some_ people.

Yuri nods and tips his head back to look at the night sky. "Those things are usually all about being polite and trying to get old people with money to give it to you even though they don't know shit about skating and I hate it." 

Otabek hums an agreement. "The skaters who win gold are always the most popular." Yuri knows his face is doing something weird. He's _definitely_ proud of himself. He worked hard and won gold in his senior debut despite only getting one world record, but he _knows_ Otabek worked hard, too, and with how different their experiences have been... He's saved from finding something to say when Otabek adds, "It's hard to be upset about losing to two world record performances."

Hopefully there's not enough light for Otabek to see Yuri turning red. "What about JJ?"

Otabek's nose scrunches up and his eyebrows furrow. He wobbles a hand in the air in a so-so gesture.

"You think he's a dick, too," Yuri decides.

"He's not the sort of person I'm interested in spending time with," Otabek basically agrees. "Your friend did well, though."

"Huh?" Is Otabek making fun of JJ by referring to himself in the third person? But then it dawns on him that Otabek is talking about the other Yuuri. He deflates as quickly as he bristles. "Yeah. This time. Last year he bombed all his jumps. It was bad. Like, I found him crying in a public toilet bad."

"Some people take longer to find their strengths. " 

Yuri snorts. "I guess."

The sound of the sea comfortably fills the space between them, and Yuri finds himself thinking about Hasetsu. Would Otabek like it? Would he like Yuuko and her kids? He'd told Yuri in the cafe that he had two sisters and a ton of cousins in Almaty; Yuri only has his grandfather. The triplets had taken some getting used to.

"Strength found with another person is still strength," Otabek says eventually, like he's been giving Yuuri freaking Katsuki's dumpster fire of a career a lot of thought. "Will they wait to get married? Since you took the gold."

" _Ugh_ ," Yuri says with feeling. "Viktor woulda married that moron when he was still thinking about katsudon for his short program inspiration. They're going to be so gross. I don't want to think about it. Ever. I bet they'll go around calling each other ‘husband’ six thousand times a day and stare at their rings like they _already do_ , oh my god, I hope they stay in Japan so I never have to see their stupid faces ever again." 

There's a suspicious shaking next to him. Otabek is... laughing. He's _laughing_.

Yuri swallows and declares, "You're coming with me whenever it does happen. No way am I facing that by myself. They'll have to plan it around competitions anyway, all of Viktor's friends are skaters. Maybe it'll be in Hasetsu and Yuuri's family will make all the food." His mouth starts to water at the thought. He'll mention it to Viktor.

"The Hot Springs on Ice place?"

Shit. "You know about that?"

"It was on Instagram." 

The Nishigori triplets are going _down_ the next time Yuri sees them. "You said you don't do much social media!"

Otabek shrugs. "Not to post about myself, usually. I've followed your career since you entered juniors."

Okay. That's... Yuri doesn't know what that is. He's afraid to ask why, because he knows Otabek will tell him, and his face is fucking red enough right now.

"Will you be on mine? My Instagram. Since we're friends." That'll show Mila. Otabek is _his_ friend, not hers. And it's a good excuse to stop talking about losing to Katsudon.

"If you'd like."

"Really? I mean—hang on." Yuri's palms feel clammy all of a sudden as he fumbles his phone out of his pocket and swipes open the camera. The lighting is kind of shitty, but whatever. What matters is it'll be him and Otabek in the same photo on his Instagram for Mila and the world to see. Besides, having perfect lighting in every selfie makes it look like you're trying way too hard.

He's tilting his phone to find the best angle to get the jacket's white stripes in the frame when he's caught off guard by Otabek stretching an arm out on the back of the bench so he can lean further in. He's not making a stupid face, thank fuck, just getting closer. Yuri's honestly not sure what he would've done if he _had_ been. Or smiling for no reason. He hates people who do that. ( _Viktor_.)

Yuri takes a handful of shots, picks the best, adds a filter. For the caption he puts a gold medal emoji, which he will stop doing as soon as _never_ , and his usual tiger. He's about to add a bear when he remembers Chris's disgusting teddy comment and almost throws up in his mouth. Definitely not a bear. Hmm. Lion. Lions are badass.

A couple hashtags later (too many reek of social desperation), he shoves his phone into Otabek's chest and says, "Here. Tag yourself."

This way he won't have to find Otabek's Instagram on his own and look like a stalker. Somehow they hadn't gotten around to exchanging social media information when they'd spent hours talking in the cafe, but Viktor and Katsudon had cut that short with their grossness. They would've gotten to it eventually.

"It's a little dark," Otabek says after he one-handedly thumbs in his username and passes it back.

Yuri taps share and then follows **otabek-altin**. "Can't do much about it here." His content is pretty sparse, weeks of nothing between pictures with maybe one selfie every six months.

"We could go somewhere else."

Yuri peers at Otabek from under his hood. "You want to?"

"Sure."

Which is how Yuri's Instagram ends up with a half a dozen pictures of him and Otabek roaming the Barcelona night. He puts the same caption on each: gold medal, tiger, lion. It's a thousand times more fun than sticking around the banquet would've been, but there'll be hell to pay tomorrow for skipping out and ignoring Yakov's calls. Whatever.

It's definitely worth it, especially when they arrive at what Otabek says is their last stop.

There's a [giant cat](http://www.barcelonalowdown.com/botero-fat-sculptures/).

Yuri almost faceplants as he clambers off the motorbike too quickly in his excitement. Otabek saves him by snagging the collar of his jacket, but who cares, there's a _giant cat sculpture._

"Holy shit," he breathes as he approaches it with awed reverence. "I love it."

It's so awesome he only misses his own cat a little bit, more intent on seeing how far he can wrap his arms around the sculpture's massive head. There's a sound behind him and he turns to look at Otabek, who has his phone out and possibly just took a picture of Yuri hugging a cat sculpture but it's fucking cool, okay?

"I'm sitting on this thing," he decides. It's taller than he is, but he's a gold medallist, he can climb a fat cat. He whoops when he succeeds, punching the air.

"Get up here!" he calls. 

"We won't get a good shot if we're both up there." Otabek cranes his neck back to look up at Yuri as he speaks, hand resting on the cat's leg next to Yuri's dangling foot. He's smiling, though, and Yuri can't help grinning back.

"C'mon, we'll find someone to take it." He grabs one of the cat's ears and leans over to offer Otabek a hand up. He's heavier than Yuri expected, but soon he's arranging himself on the cat's wide back as Yuri manages to flag down a random passerby with a lot of yelling and arm-waving. She's not wearing a cat ear headband, so she's hopefully sane and won't run off with his phone. She beams at them the whole time, saying something in Catalan or Spanish. Yuri can't understand her—she keeps repeating something about lindos? Whatever the hell that means—but he gets his picture and it is fucking great. They're both smiling, because who wouldn't be smiling sitting next to their friend on top of a giant fat cat sculpture? Fucking no one, that's who.

He wastes no time posting the picture (caption: gold medal, tiger, lion, cat, cat, cat #barcelona #battlecat #iwantone) and sets it as his profile pic. "How'd you know this was here?" 

"I was looking up art in Barcelona. I thought you'd like it."

Yuri feels warm despite how numb his ass and legs are getting perched on top of a cold metal cat in what passes for winter in this lame city. 

"I like hanging out with you," he blurts out.

"I like hanging out with you, too," Otabek replies easily, like it's not the first time anyone's ever said something like that to Yuri in his whole life. His breath hitches and his jaw clenches and he feels like he just finished his GPF free skate all over again which makes no fucking sense.

If Otabek notices, he doesn't mention it.

Yuri pulls his hood up and wonders what the hell is wrong with him. He's glaring at the ground when Otabek bumps their shoulders together and holds out his phone, a drafted Instagram post on the screen. "May I post this to mine?"

It's Yuri with his arms around the sculpture. The caption reads: I wish @yuri-plisetsky could take it home with him. #gatodeboteroenbarcelona

They both have flights home tomorrow. _Home_ , ha fucking ha. Home is Moscow with his grandpa. Yuri has a flight to St Petersburg to begin prepping for Nationals and Europeans after that, both of which he is definitely going to win, but neither of which will have Otabek. Otabek is going home to Almaty to his own Nationals and then 4CC. Worlds (like hell will Yuri not be going to Worlds) aren't until the end of March.

"When are the Kazakh Nationals?" he demands, calculating.

The phone drops a few inches. "December 21 and 22. It's the first time in a few years that we've had enough entries to hold all the events. Your rinkmate said yours start the twenty-third?"

"Yeah." Yuri's half-assed plan to yell/beg Yakov to take Otabek on in St Petersburg crumbles at the pride in Otabek's voice. He sounds so pleased that Kazakhstan is getting its figure skating shit together, and he'd baldly admitted how much he'd missed his family when he'd been training in other countries and—it sucks.

It fucking sucks.

The silence drags on. Otabek is still looking at him. "I won't post it if it makes you uncomfortable."

"It doesn't," Yuri snaps. He'd completely forgotten about the picture. He grabs Otabek by the wrist and jabs the share button himself. "See?"

The flat line of Otabek's mouth tugs down at the corners as he slowly puts his phone in his pocket. "Should we get off the cat now?"

"Fine," Yuri mutters.

Otabek slides down first but doesn't move away, like it's a given Yuri needs help getting off the damn thing. Yuri glares and pointedly scoots to the side before jumping down.

The walk to the motorbike is awkward. For Yuri, anyway. Otabek looks the same as ever. He's tense the entire ride to the hotel; his knees and shoulders are stiff when he climbs off the bike in the corner of the deserted carpark. He yanks off his helmet, shoves it at Otabek, and starts on the jacket. Somehow he'd forgotten he was still wearing his stupid banquet suit underneath it.

Otabek's hand on his shoulder stills his jerky tugs. "Keep it," he says. "I got it for you. Hang on to it for next time."

Something in Yuri shatters. "Next time?" he shouts. "Next time is months away! We won't be in the same country again until Worlds!" His hands are balled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms.

Otabek's expression barely flickers in the face of Yuri's explosion and that tight feeling in his throat returns with a vengeance. "I waited five years to cross paths with you again. Three months is better. And we're friends now, so we'll talk. Text. I'll try to use Instagram more, if you like."

"You won't forget?" The question pops out and Yuri wants to kick himself in the face. (He could, too.)

"I won't forget."

They stare at each other. Yuri's not sure what he's looking for, but Otabek gazes calmly back until Yuri's desire to believe him wins out over his ingrained cynicism. He tips his chin up and Otabek nods back before gesturing for Yuri to lead the way to the hotel.

He doesn't realize he's being walked to his room until they're standing in front of his door. Miraculously, no one else is in the hallway to give him shit about about it. Or to witness his complete inability to say goodbye in a casual and cool manner. Otabek seems content to lean against the wall until he figures it out.

"When's your flight?" he finally asks. Maybe he can put off this goodbye crap until morning. His isn't until after lunch. 

"I have to leave for the airport in three hours."

What the fuck? What the fuck. What the fuck! "Huh?! Why didn't you sleep, you idiot?"

"It would've been difficult to hang out with you if I did that. I'll sleep on the plane."

Yuri ruthlessly squashes the warm feeling that gives him and jams his keycard in the slot. "Fine, then come watch crappy Spanish TV with me until you have to go. I can sleep later, too." 

Otabek follows him in, shutting the door a lot more gently than Yuri opened it. The only place to sit is the bed, so they kick off their shoes and settle back against the headboard. His rinkmates always yell at him for channel-surfing at lightspeed, but Otabek just shifts down a little and asks how long it took to consistently be able to raise his arms during his jumps.

Yuri doesn't remember falling asleep, but there's sunlight streaming in through the plate glass balcony doors between one blink and the next. He's still wearing the tiger-stripe leather jacket, but the covers are pulled up over his legs, which he doesn't remember doing, either.

The TV is off and Otabek is gone. 

He covers his face with his hands and exhales noisily through his teeth before snatching his phone from the bedside table.

There are a million Instagram notifications that he ignores in favor of checking his texts. There's way too many from Mila, one from Katsudon, and one from Otabek.

Before he can read it, Yakov starts hammering on the door and threatening to string him up by his skates if he's not awake yet. Yuri chucks the alarm clock across the room and yells incoherently back because Yakov can wait two fucking seconds.

_This is me not forgetting. Have a safe flight home._

Yuri grins.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! All comments, kudos, & bookmarks are very much appreciated. :)
> 
> I've got a few ideas about turning this into a series. Maybe. If I don't get distracted by another fandom.
> 
> [This is the 'fat cat' sculpture](http://www.barcelonalowdown.com/botero-fat-sculptures/) Otabek and Yuri visit.


End file.
